Werk

November 10, 2009

I am doing what no one should ever attempt which is eating a pomegranate at my desk. In order to not splatter one's entire cubicle with very sticky, very squirty, very stainey pomegranate juice this requires performing total dissection in the kitchenette beforehand. I did that with the first half of the fruit, but now I am feeling lazy and also: I can't get up to take care of this elsewhere. I need to pull this fruit apart, right here and now. Then I am my mother, watching and warning, "You should stop now. That's not going to work out for you." And I am a seven year-old, too engrossed/determined to quit, plus experimenting with defiance. I know this is perilous and I don't want the mom to see me still going for it, so to shorten the duration of risk, I hurry. But one bit is difficult to get apart and in struggling with it- oh no! A smattering. Then I am the mother saying, "See there," and cleaning up after. But, the thing is, my mom never did this kind of thing. She's never been an I-told-you-so-er; whose mother am I channeling? Is that the kind of mother I'm going to be? I'm seven years old and obstinate, and I'm my own future-parenting-style-I-hope-I -don't-really-wind-up-going-in-for mother to myself. I am the world's least fun unsolveable logic problem.

October 25, 2007

When I touch base by phone with an older woman I admin for while she's out of the office and in saying good-bye she tells me, "Be good," is this a word of caution? Is she saying she suspects there's a possibility I might be other than good since she's not around? Is the underlying message that she finds me to be, generally speaking, no good?

Or is this just something she says? Like to be... grandmotherly, or something.

October 08, 2007

Thank you for the beautiful office supplies you surreptitiously piled on my desk when I was away in a meeting. You probably weren't aware of my particular affection for the stuff, but you clearly saw that my new space was lacking certain essentials. In a dragging hour of this what has been a long and kind of overwhelming day, for just a moment you made me feel like it was my emmer-effing birthday all up in this piece (wherein piece = cubicle).

August 17, 2007

I have four days left at work and am feeling pretty ready to move on to the great state of Unemployment at this point, but I have been experiencing a few tender feelings for things I will miss about working at the Youth Brigade, including (certain among) the kids and the always-entertaining things they say and do and produce. For example, this exemplary "compare and contrast" writing assignment by Remi; Iron Maiden and Black Sabbath Part tWo The rewrite [Final Draft], which I lovingly present for your enjoyment:

The essay reads:

"The two bands I chose to compare and contrast are both metal bands. Metal bands have heavy guitar parts and insane drum and bass parts. The first one was Black sabbath and the second one w Iron Maiden.

The way that Iron Maiden and Black sabbath are similar is they are both english bands. Another way is they both have great musicians like ozzy and Steve hairison.

The First way that black sabbath and Iron Maiden [are different] is maiden is still together and Sabbath is not. Also sabbath has ozzy and maiden does not. ozzy is the guy who bit a bats head off onstage.

In my conclusion both bands are awesome. The way that maiden is awesome is for their song the trooper and Sabbath is awesome for their song warpigs. That is why I chose those bands."

January 09, 2007

A conversation between a tutor and student at the Youth Brigade where I work. Marla is seven and is learning to read.

Tutor: OK, Marla, what vowel makes the sound "eh?"Marla: (silent, hunts for the answer in her book)Tutor: Marla? Marla: (emerges from book as though she's just been preoccupied with some really good reading) SO. You were saying?Tutor: What vowel makes the sound "eh?"Marla (authoritatively now): Well, according to my BRAIN, it's E.

November 05, 2006

Cubby is seven. I'm trying to keep her entertained while she waits for her tutor at Youth Brigade, the learning center where I work. We are practicing our puppy-drawing techniques on a pile of Post-It notes and I tell Cubby we need to do that quietly because the student in the next room "is writing an essay and needs to concentrate because it's hard," which prompts the following conversation:

Cubby: We did essay last week at my school.

Me: Indeed? What were you supposed to write about for your essays?

Cubby: "What is the funnest place."

Me: What is?

Cubby: Zoo, California, Outer Space... Maybe Heaven.

Me: Which did you choose for your topic?

Cubby: Ummm- Heaven. I would say essay is pretty hard, but it's not the hardest thing.

October 19, 2006

Isaiah is ten years old and is completing a portion of his schooling for the year at Youth Brigade, the tutoring center where I work. The following are sentences he composed for a vocabulary assignment he completed this week as homework for his tutor, Tommy:

Isaiah was watching Tommy farting attentively.

Tommy farted and Isaiah said it was almost palpable.

Isaiah pooped and Tommy was distraught because it was the size of Tommy.

Isaiah had to fart so bad for a year and he was so apprehensive; then when he farted it blew a hole through the earth.

March 31, 2006

I'm downing this beer as fast as I can, having just come from an "interview" with one of the most stunningly inefficient people I've ever met. Having started ONE FULL HOUR after our scheduled meeting time, I was eager to get in there, talk myself up, get hired, and get out. Instead I got to wait. A lot. The first time my potential employer took a call from his lawyer regarding a health issue I took the opportunity to collect my thoughts, look around and see what needed to be done (by me, natch) to help get things organized, the second time I began to familiarize myself a little bit with the product. By the time he started actually placing calls to hammer out details regarding packaging I began to be somewhat peeved, and finally when he checked, then ANSWERED HIS CELL PHONE and sustained a lengthy conversation over whether or not he would skip out for the afternoon to, "knock off nine holes," I admit- I almost started to cry.

During the course of our meeting he was on the phone not less than six times, then wanted to make an appointment so I can come back and, presumably, wait around some more! Efficiency, I tell you! Adorably, he was also patriarchal and homophobic, and made great issue of my inclusion of the Queer Lounge on my resume, digging around to find out just how I feel about Those Kinds of People, and to make sure I haven't been recruited and am just not letting on about it. This fretting and probing went on at length, until he admitted experience with "an unfortunate intimacy on the subject," (like he's a big emmer-effing queer theorist or something) and I, flailing to steer the conversation off this course of doom, found myself explaining that, "it's not my pet cause," which is true, but still left me feeling sullied and traitorous.

The whole time I kept thinking this is a game, Em, treat it like a game, all you have to do is come here, and do your job, and PRETEND. You will be able to tell whether you're winning by how well you pretend, see? A game! And I know that I COULD play it, and it wouldn't be so bad. There are things I could do for the business and, having done them, I'd be liked, and in being liked I could influence the bigoted opinions of the boss I'd be interacting with every day. Maybe. On the plus side, the guy is anti-Bush Administration. Too bad he's also vociferously anti-immigrant- if you wouldn't mind not mentioning that to the Mexicans in the other room hard at work keeping his business running.

Anyway he's not all bad; in fact he's certainly charming in many ways. He has rather beautiful smooth skin for someone his age, for example. I could point out that his T's are beautifully articulated. And he's kind of sweetly lispy and precise, so that one can perceive the strong likelihood that he has endured a lifetime of being mistaken for a total queer gay fag cocksucker.

For example.

I don't mean to be so bitter, but part of the reason I came out to California was to get away from his Type, with their wide-eyed, patently offensive Good-Ol'-Boy "innocence." I thought I'd left that (and the lurking darnger of marrying into it) behind in Salt Lake City. Then I had to deal with this guy, and then there was this insane retarded angry homophobic letter to the editor in the local weekly (which is not online but I'll hunt it down and append to this post later), and it's all conspired to leave me feeling rather bruised and tender, to the point that I think I'd better leave it at this for the moment.